I felt my beard with eager hands. Yes, there was no mistake. It was there, but how it had grown was inconceivable. Beyond, through the open door, I saw the brilliant sunlight, the green lawn, the bright flowers and cool foliage of the rustling trees. It was summer. Yet only yesterday was chill, dark winter, with threatening snow. Had I been asleep like Rip Van Winkle in the legend? "Tell me," I cried excitedly, turning to the man standing behind me, "what's the day of the month to-day?" "The seventeenth of July." "July?" I echoed. "And what year is this?" "Why, eighteen hundred and ninety-six, of course." "Ninety-six!" I gasped, standing glaring at him in blank amazement. "Ninety-six?" "Certainly. Why?" "Am I really losing my senses?" I cried, dismayed. "_Yesterday was six years ago_!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. GEDGE TELLS THE TRUTH. "Yesterday six years ago!" he echoed, looking at me in blank bewilderment. "What do you mean?" "I mean that if what you've told me is really the truth," I cried, agape in wonder, "then it is the most astounding thing I've ever heard of. Are you absolutely certain of the date?" "Certain? Why, of course." "Of the year, I mean?" "Positive. It's eighteen ninety-six." "For how long, then, have you been my secretary?" I inquired. "Nearly five years." "And how long have I lived in this place?" "For nearly four." "And that woman," I demanded, breathlessly--"is she actually my wife?" "Most certainly," he answered. I stood stupefied, stunned by this amazing statement. "But," I protested, lost in wonder, "yesterday was years ago. How do you account for that? Are you certain that you're not deceiving me?" "I've told you the absolute truth," he responded. "On that I stake my honour." I stood aghast, glaring at my reflection in the mirror, open-mouthed, as though I gazed upon some object supernatural. My personal appearance had certainly changed, and that in itself convinced me that there must be some truth in this man Gedge's statement. I was older, a trifle stouter than before, I think, and my red-brown beard seemed to give my face a remarkably grotesque appearance. I had always hated beards, and considered them a relic of prehistoric barbarity. It was surprising that I should now have grown one. "Then according to your account I must have spent yesterday here-- actually in this house?" "Why, of course you did," he responded. "We were engaged the greater part of the day over Laffan's affair. Walter Halliburton, the mining engineer, came down to see you, and we were together all the afternoon. He left for London at five." "And where did I dine?" "Here. With Mrs Heaton." "Don't speak of her as Mrs Heaton!" I cried in anger. "She's not my wife, and I will not have her regarded as such." He gave his shoulders a slight shrug.